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by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Comfort, Minor Character Death, Set on Chorus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29985975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: “Grif is dead,” Tucker informs him just after he'd finished his patrol.“Oh,” Simmons says, immediately alarmed.The Blue smirks and crosses his arms. “Kimball is gonna kill him.”“Oh,” Simmons says, way less alarmed.“He’s been hoarding rations.”“Oh,” Simmons says, very alarmed.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





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The bullet bounces off the rock.

A streak of light through the leaves, glistening blood, broken shards, a strand of hair.

The bullet bounces off the rock.

* * *

“What’s the smell?” Simmons asks him while shoving three empty cans off the bed. The fourth one is only half-empty and spills all over the cluttered floor. The noise that leaves Simmons' mouth makes Grif snort.

“Could be many things.”

“Could be you,” Simmons suggests and leans closer as if trying to locate the smell.

“Probably.”

“Disgusting.”

“Sure is.”

“Why don’t we ever hang out in my room?” Simmons grumbles and makes himself comfortable in Grif’s bed.

* * *

Having two rooms is new. The New Republic doesn’t have much to offer, and Kimball is aware of the fact. The biggest offer is the reunion with their friends, but that still seems so far away, Grif doesn’t believe it most of the time. He doesn’t tell Simmons that, even though he is sure Simmons thinks that as well. Maybe that’s why Grif doesn’t tell him.

Still, the title has to come with _something_. Power, mostly. The ability to tell teenagers to stand in line, to get behind cover, to shut up, to march into gunfire, to kill someone.

But they got separate rooms. That was a big thing, considering how small the Rebels’ base is. Kimball had escorted them to their quarters so proudly, like she was living up to an expected standard.

Grif has never had a room of his own. In Red Base, he’d always been holed up with Simmons. Even at Rat’s Nest, though he’d had his own quarters there. Sergeant Quarters. Back in Basic Training, they’d managed to fit four bunk beds in a single room, and Grif doubted it was to increase the odds in the snoring competition. And before that-

There’d been Kai.

* * *

The bullet bounces off the rock.

A black strand of hair. His boot crushes the shards. A brown eye staring through the hole.

The bullet bounces off the rock.

* * *

“Grif is dead,” Tucker informs him just after he'd finished his patrol.

“Oh,” Simmons says, immediately alarmed.

The Blue smirks and crosses his arms. “Kimball is gonna kill him.”

“Oh,” Simmons says, way less alarmed.

“He’s been hoarding rations.”

“Oh,” Simmons says, _very_ alarmed.

* * *

The bullet bounces off the rock.

“Are you okay?” Simmons asks him over the radio. Did he hear the gunshots? No, he’s too far away. Grif needs to get used to not being attached by the hip any longer.

He opens his mouth to answer, closes it, rubs his arm instead. There’s blood on his glove.

The bullet bounces off the rock.

* * *

“Are you okay?” Simmons asks him. Grif didn’t hear him knock. Or maybe he did. It’s hard when everything sounds like a freaking bullet, echoing inside his fucked-up brain.

“No,” Grif laments. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

“That’s the point!”

Simmons settles next to him in the bed that creaks under the weight of the metal limbs. The space below the bed is empty now. That knowledge leaves Grif’s hands itchy. “And Kimball took away all your snacks.”

“No one was using them, Simmons.”

“Yet. And you weren’t using them either.”

Grif’s not hungry. He makes sure of the fact. He knows what it’s like to grow hungry, and that’s why he knows how to store food in a place no one else will find, to hoard it, to keep it there, just in case, because things might go bad, and because there are survival instincts that flare up now and then. Especially now.

But also before Chorus. Simmons knew of the bad habit, of course. There are things that you learn about each other when you share a room. Like how Simmons’s childhood has left him with nightmares about his father, and how Grif’s childhood taught him at an early age that expiration dates don’t mean shit. When you are starving, you take what you get. When you are not starving, you prepare.

Grif _likes_ food, but things taste off on Chorus. He isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s some spice, or maybe it’s all just old enough for him to notice for once. His stomach’s been upset lately. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. It leaves him shaky, and Sarge isn’t there to call him a wuss. Or even worse: a dramatic Blue. Donut’s not there to hold wine and cheese hours where Grif can steal the leftovers for a grilled cheese sandwich at night.

Simmons is still there, though. It’s something.

The cyborg inhales in the silence. “But they didn’t rot so… And Kimball’s backing off.”

“I was just guarding them with my life. You know, in case Feds storm the place.”

“I don’t think food is their top priority at the moment.”

“The planet’s starving, Simmons, and their food is shit – if that ain’t their priority, they should rearrange them.”

“Yeah, well, I’m taking that burden off your shoulders. Wouldn’t want you dying for an expired beef stew MRE.”

“Please. I only took the beef taco ones. I have standards.”

They both know that’s a lie. It’s a good thing Simmons has shitty standards as well.

“Anyway, we’ll be keeping the food somewhere that doesn’t have mice and cockroaches fighting over who gets the diner. So It old Kimball they could use my room as storage instead.”

Grif blinks and stretches his fingers. “You greedy fuck, you’re the one hoarding them now!”

“I’m not!”

“Fucking Princess on the Pea Stew MRE.”

“I’m not keeping them under my bed! I’m not _you_!”

“How can you sleep at night, Simmons?”

“I don’t,” Simmons says, and the tone’s change, lower now when he’s turned his head away. “I don’t sleep.”

* * *

The bullet bounces off the rock.

Grif hadn’t wanted to kill the Fed, but he had pulled the trigger. Does that make a difference? Does it make a difference that she shot first? Does it make a difference that she is dead now, and Grif is alive, and he is staring down at her, looking through her broken visor to see that she has the same dark hair as Kai, that she’s so young, just the age she’d been when he’d left. Does that matter?

The bullet bounces off the rock.

* * *

“Yeah,” Grif says and swallows. “Me neither.”

“I figured.”

Grif closes his eyes and fails at not remembering the teen’s face with dead brown eyes staring up at her, blood spilling from the hole in her forehead.

Something must have given him away, a tense jaw, a trembling finger. Something Simmons has spotted since he is scooting closer to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nah,” Grif says and breathes heavy enough for Simmons to feel it.

“Okay,” Simmons says. He pushes dirty laundry off the bed so there’s space for both of them as Grif lies down and Simmons follows suit. Grif can hear the whirring from the gears in Simmons’ chest. It fills his head with something else than gunshots, so he doesn’t complain. At least, for now. Simmons knows that complaining is a love language.

It’s one of the things you learn from being roommates.

They are going to move Simmons’ bed in here eventually, but for now, this works just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> A quick little piece to let you all know I'm back from my hiatus. Sorry about that. I had to get a script done for a competition that could change my life, so cross your fingers for me!
> 
> As always: English isn't my native language, and you can find me on tumblr and twitter as RiaTheDreamer


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